


When Skies Are Hanged

by YankingAwry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: An AU w/o Mary, Angst, Drama, Gratuitous dream-sequence Jolto, M/M, Mentions of suicidal tendencies, Post-Reichenbach, Resolution, Romance, Slow Build, and The Woman is briefly referenced as well, and whelp forgot to add that there's a bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YankingAwry/pseuds/YankingAwry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>There’s always something, of course— sister-not-brother, botox-not-tetanus, but alive-not-dead, that’s not your garden-variety blunder. John crawled on hands and knees through the five stages of grief— raw skin, ragged fingernails and all. Turns out they were listed wrong, John should’ve swapped the first and last, and isn’t this a fucking epiphany, that he was closer to the truth when he was in denial.</p>
</blockquote><p>A Post-Reichenbach fix-it, in which Sherlock returns and John battles with the unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from e e cummings' poem, 'what if a much of a which of a wind' (the lines go: when skies are hanged and oceans drowned/the single secret will still be man)

It’s okay, it’s all right, it’s fine— it’s  _all_  fine, it is—

Except it’s fucking  _not_.

Friends don’t let friends drive themselves to suicide.

Once dead, aforementioned friends most certainly do not spring back to life, like ungainly jack-in-the-boxes. Do not simply resurrect, like Jesus-bloody- _Christ_ —

They’re hunched in the cellar of Angelo’s, and the support beam overhead casts a thin, fuzzy strip of shadow over Sherlock’s broad, pale forehead— like a crown of thorns—

A thump from above sends dust spiralling into their hair, and on their clothes. People are hooting upstairs, something is happening.

“…John? Are you listening to me?” Grey eyes roving his face— a hand outstretched, not quite touching, withheld on instinct— oh that’s good, that’s  _very_  good— even Sherlock, for all his meagre understanding of trite  _sentiment_ , dares not disobey certain innate etiquettes, like  _do not fucking touch me while I try and reconstruct everything I thought I knew_ —

How did John not see this coming? There’s always something, of course— sister-not-brother, botox-not-tetanus, but alive-not-dead, that’s not your garden-variety blunder. John crawled on hands and knees through the five stages of grief— raw skin, ragged fingernails and all. Turns out they were listed wrong, John should’ve swapped the first and last, and isn’t this a fucking epiphany, that he was closer to the truth when he was in denial—

John likes a good laugh, same as any bloke— within reason. He does not enjoy cruel jokes— the sick, twisted ones. It stands to reason that he is not very fond of his epiphanies.

“ _How_ — t-two years, Sherlock-” His trachea, lungs and diaphragm seem to compress and expand out of tandem, like an accordion played poorly, and he finds he is unable to speak without stuttering.

He can’t imagine what Sherlock sees in his eyes, because the man takes a small step forward, and his lips pop open in that way they do when he’s about to stop leading New Scotland Yard round and round the mulberry bush—

“I did it for you, John.” It should be a sin, for the timbre of his voice to click right back into John’s schema of cognition, as if John had not tried burying it six feet under, with the worms and soil and devastation. “For Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade— Moriarty had snipers on each of you, prepared to shoot if they didn’t explicitly see me-” John’s breath hitches, and Sherlock breaks off.

It’s a birthday celebration going on, the chanting is clearly audible,  _Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to_ -

“Sh-Sherlock— you left me, and I— I  _mourned_  you-” John pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply through his mouth.

Sherlock stares at him, solemn. “Believe me, John-”

“- _don’t_ — don’t  _talk_  to me about  _believing_  in y-you,  _Jesus_ , just-”

He can hear a delighted child scream, somewhat muffled, over and over,  _make a wish! Make a wish, make a wish, make a-_

John closes his eyes and lets out a small huff of breath, stepping forward until he can feel the lapels of Sherlock’s coat brush against his chest—

Sherlock’s lips are parted, shock and guilt and something unidentifiable, splayed messily across his face—

The emotions slide right off when John socks him in the mouth.

Something clatters to the ground. A vindictive shove to the shoulder— then a hard elbow to the stomach— Sherlock accepts it all, wordlessly,  _passively_ , which is incredibly infuriating— because not fighting back doesn’t make it even, _nothing_  makes blood-drenched pavements and limp wrists  _even_ , and this knowledge of how Sherlock is trying to apologise makes him want to hit harder, but if he did, Sherlock might keep on letting him, and then what would stop the vicious circle—

Sherlock rests his head against the wall, eyes scrunched shut, a dribble of dark red inching down his chin. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his breathing as laboured as John’s, who has bent over, palms clutching knees.

When John looks up, Sherlock is already watching him.

“Please, John. You have to let me explain until you’re in full possession of all the facts-” A small pause, as if anticipating an angry interjection, and it thrills John to stay stock-still and silent— defying expectation, listening, “-otherwise, you may reach an erroneous conclusion.”

An eruption of applause from above makes both of them glance at the ceiling.

“Go on, then.”

“I—what?”

“The facts, Sherlock, the  _facts_. We have  _all_  night.” He feels his lips stretch into a tight smile, and lets the bitterness and anger seep unchecked, wanting the deep and ugly ochre of it to stain and  _soak_  Sherlock right down to the bone and settle in his marrow, like a malignancy, so that he understands the enormity of what he did to John Watson— “Wouldn’t want to reach conclusions  _erroneously_ , now, would we.”  

He twist every syllable the way you twist an arm to land a punch.

It’s a very slight movement, but Sherlock flinches, face unguarded, looking very small— and it makes John feel  _glorious_ , and  _righteous_ —

And then, abruptly hollow.

He gestures to a group of empty crates. “Might as well be sitting for this.”

 

*

 

Angelo walks in, furtive and anxious, asking them if they wouldn’t prefer talking upstairs, now that everything is calm— well, calmer— it’s just so dim with that bulb short-circuited, and cramped with the new shipment of flour, and hand to god Angelo feels terrible that he couldn’t warn John before, and are they feeling peckish at all, because it would be no trouble at all to prepare something, maybe a nice pesto—

Sherlock stares at the floorboards and John stares at Angelo until his smile flickers and he wrings his hands, uneasily.

“So I will get a candle, yes?”

John lets out a shocked laugh as Sherlock says, forcefully, “No!”

After Angelo has gone it takes a few, desperate seconds to remember where they had left off.

 

*

 

There is a new scar on Sherlock’s face— a sliver of silver that bites into half his right eyebrow. It ripples along with his forehead, whenever he frowns or exclaims or widens his eyes in that earnest way of his— as if Sherlock’s two years alone are trying to push past skin and physically manifest themselves—

It’s nothing, really. A tiny, glossy gash. Practically unobtrusive. But then, midway through a sentence, Sherlock will pull a face that  _should_  be comfortingly familiar, except it’s not, it’s been changed— because of that little, wayward jog of healing tissue— into something distractingly different.

“What are you— it’s my hair, isn’t it, I  _knew_  it-”

“…I’m sorry?”

“My hair, John, my hair!” Sherlock says, impatiently. “My  _hair_ ,” as if the emphasis will make things much clearer. John looks on, perplexed.  “I’m losing it,” Sherlock explains.

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“Oh, droll. I meant, I’m losing my  _hair_. It’s— it’s started to fall out,” Sherlock confesses, the gravest he has been throughout the entire conversation.

It’s strange to realise, then, that though a lot may have changed, irretrievably— like molten lava heaving great terrains across oceans, slowly and surely, into unrecognisable patterns— so much  _hasn’t_.

 

*

 

“You’ll consider it?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock-”

“I’m not asking you to know, I’m asking you to consider, unless you don’t know whether to consider, which is a unique kind of indecisiveness-”

“What about Mrs. Hudson?”

“What about her?”

“Won’t she— oh.” John watches as Sherlock’s quizzical expression rearranges, now blank. “She already knows, doesn’t she? How long? No, don’t answer that, I don’t want to-” He strokes the webbing between his thumb and index finger. “’Course she knew before me,” he says quietly, almost talking to himself.

“John-”

“No, no, it’s— forget it. And besides, I have a bedsit now-” Sherlock lets out a derisive snort, before turning it into a cough.

John feels a sudden spurt of shiny, renewed resentment.

He clears his throat and stands up, pushing the crate back. Pins and needles retreat from his legs with slow remembrance, as if his limbs have been in disuse for a long time. Sherlock studies him, eyes narrowing. “I suppose I— I should be off now. Goodnight, then.”

“But I’ll see you tomorrow?” Sherlock asks quickly, in a tone so blatantly—  _something_ — that John cringes, and covers it by rotating his shoulder. He nods, stiffly, and turns to leave. John’s climbed three steps when the back of his neck prickles, something feels  _off—_

“John, wait.” There is a soft, metallic scraping.

Sherlock puts one hand on the railing and extends the other, fingers curled around—

 

John snatches his cane and hurries up the stairs without looking back, through the chequered tables and into the night air, where he finally takes a deep breath—then another—

Cautiously, he kneads his thigh, testing and probing.

There is no pain.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this hiatus so much.  
> This fic is literal, textbook sublimation.  
> Updates should be up quite quick, it's not a very long story (but I am still writing it)


	2. Chapter 2

Of  _course_ , he moves back in.

Of course he does.

It wasn’t  _an_  option, there were no  _options_. 

There was the one, illuminated path— and unknown, murky depths lapping on either side. Never to be waded through. Never to be drowned in.

So John does what John does best, he soldiers on.

He moves back in.

And if it takes constructing a tenuous illusion of control and choice, so be it.

                                                                

*

 

“Show me,” John demands.

Sherlock shrugs off his dressing gown with a grimace, fingering the hem of his t-shirt— and stops, hesitant. Without breaking eye contact, John reaches out, tilting his head: a silent question. Sherlock looks away, tense.  

John lifts the cloth up, very slowly.

Navel.

Stark ribcage.

A sprinkling of dark chest hair.

The t-shirt slips off with a soft sound, tousling Sherlock’s hair.

Then, he turns around, and John draws back instantly, jaw going slack. Sherlock’s head twists, the skin of his neck stretched tight. His chin brushes his shoulder, and he watches John, unblinking.

John lets his fingers hover over a war zone.

The pale of Sherlock’s back is criss-crossed with angry, red ridges— mottled, with the yellow, blue and purple of bruises all ageing differently, colours fighting for territory on this expanse of broken skin. 

“Sherlock,” John says, as steadily as he can, “the salve, please.” He then rummages through his drawer for a roll of dressing, and tears the gauze into strips, neatly and efficiently, because when it comes to war zones, there is none better than John Watson.

“Tosspot,” he remarks matter-of-factly, gingerly spreading the ointment. “You utter tosspot.”

To his credit, Sherlock does not contradict this.

“You know,” John says, delicately wrapping the gauze around Sherlock’s midriff, “the next time you feel like trying this sort of stunt again, god forbid,” he tightens the gauze, slightly, and Sherlock winces, “where you’re playing dead and being a saviour and all that rubbish,” he pulls away and waits, as Sherlock turns to face him, “you should take me with you.”

Sherlock, looking taken aback, begins, “John, there are other ways to experience an adrenalin rush, sans the starvation, torture, and compost toilets, and we have a fairly good system in place here-”

“ _Sherlock_. I know.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Jesus, I know. It’s not that, just-” He clears his throat, looks to the ground, and back up. Sherlock stares. “This, what you had to face, I mean…no one should have to go through that on their own. Ever.”

Sherlock blinks.

“So just…just tell me, for Christ’s sakes, _tell me_ about these things, and I’ll come with you. Someone’s got to be there, make sure this caring lark doesn’t kill you.” John tries for a smile, and receives a blank expression in return. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s not— you shouldn’t have to be _alone_ , yeah?” Softer, he adds, “I’d follow you to the ends of the Earth, you know that.”

Sherlock begins to pull on his t-shirt. “Yes,” he says distantly. “I suppose I do.”

The door shuts behind him with a click.

 

*

 

John dreams of afternoons, when the sun trickles like thick, golden honey, and settles in fallen feathers, crowding every nook and corner of 221B, Baker Street. Sherlock sits in the armchair, and John sits opposite him, in a leisurely anticipation that unfurls the small, winded knot in his chest.

They do not talk, in his dreams.

They just sit together, reading or writing or being, as the light wanes, ever so slowly. 

Waking up is like boarding a deserted train from a deserted platform. He yearns, without knowing what for.

 

*

 

“I got my old job back, at the practice.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock taps away at the keyboard, typing seamlessly, composing his blog post the way he plays the violin: apparently, through sheer muscle memory.

“They didn’t have a vacancy when I first called, which is funny-”

“Oh?”

“-because the next day, they called me back. Turns out there's a senior GP who's retiring. Shifting to Majorca, apparently.”

“Fortuitous.”

“That’s the word, right there. They even bumped my salary by 10% and offered to cut down the required clinic hours. I declined.” John flexes his fingers. “Want the work.”

“Good. And are you, er, quite done with this riveting tale?” It’s tricky, but John reckons he’s got this three-layered tactic of Sherlock’s well and truly spotted. It’s when he tries to sound distracted or bored, while trying to sound interested, while _actually_ trying to watch you, very carefully, from the corner of his eyes. Hiding his face behind a journal, or the paper, or in this case, John’s laptop.

It’s the tactic Sherlock uses to make you second-guess yourself. Rethink what you may have been about to say. Let you wonder if it isn’t unimportant, and wouldn’t it be best to just let the matter go—

The typing pauses and Sherlock slips, looking up and right into John’s eyes.

“Tell your brother I say thanks, will you?”

A beat of silence. Then, wordlessly, Sherlock resumes typing, and John wanders into the kitchen to put the kettle on, feeling silly and triumphant.

It’s one of his more  _logistical_  fantasies: collating all of Sherlock’s known manoeuvres, subterfuges and dirty, underhanded ploys into one book. Detailing the correct ways to wheedle and persuade him, and handle all his stroppy moods. His bouts of ennui and inappropriate enthusiasm. How many pages would it run? How many editions would print? How many people would buy it?

And what would Sherlock think? Would he act hurt, secretly delighted that he’s not the only one who’s been  _observing_ , or would he act delighted, secretly hurt because the discovery and keep of these insignificant secrets should be theirs and their  _alone_ , not out  _there_ , with the rest of the world?

Mrs. Hudson would buy one, but not for utility. Doubtless, he would have to consult her expertise while writing. New Scotland Yard would order in bulk, and Lestrade would keep two, just in case. Mycroft would order a copy, John feels certain, dipping his tea bag into the milk. And maybe then, would consider getting a therapist of his own.  

 

*

 

When John now loads his gun at night, it’s with the thought of doing something heroic the next day. Not, of other fancies; of feeling the ridges of cold metal against the palate of his mouth before, tenderly, pressing down one last time with his left index finger.

Because when Mrs. Hudson set down the tray of hot scones and cooed,  _Isn’t this just like the old times_ , she was right, but she was also wrong— because some times are  _older_  than others, and some are the oldest. Some are like haunting Möbius strips, like snakes swallowing their scaled tails and slithering back for seconds, like being invalided from a bullet wound to the shoulder and then invalided from a rooftop fall to the heart.

Sherlock has saved John many times, and as of last count, perhaps twice from John himself.

 

*

 

Sherlock holds a brown, dusty roll of film to the light and crows in victory.  _Amazing_ , John repeats himself hoarse, while they inspect the tiny, inverted images. Lestrade looks mildly baffled, Donovan looks unwillingly impressed, and Dimmock looks sleepy.

On the cab ride home, John smiles— opens his mouth— and closes it again.

“Oh for god’s sake,  _don’t_ ,” Sherlock says, without as much as a glance away from the window.

“What?”

“You’ve thought of something, something  _amusing_ , something you feel the urge to  _share_ , notwithstanding that we’ve been down this road countless times-” Sherlock straightens in his seat, pulling the scarf around his neck tighter, “-so in the interest of learning from past mistakes,  _don’t_.”

John’s smile only widens. The taxi takes a sharp turn, and their shoulders bump.

“Fine,” Sherlock bites out after a second, “ _fine_ , but in no more than fifteen words.” Briefly, he puts his head in his hands, and mutters something. It sounds like a prayer.

“Well, today’s case, you know,” John starts—

“Yes, I  _do_  know, I believe I was there, maybe even played a minor role-”

“You could say you proved a negative.”

Sherlock turns to the window.

“Good god,” he says quietly, but the blur of city lights throw the dips and planes of his profile into relief, so that John can see the slope of his cheek, and how it’s just the slightest bit lifted.

John feels _marvellous_.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do leave behind a comment/kudos if you like it so far, I feed off that stuff, it makes my day. Or, wish me luck for my first week of college (!)  
> And thank you very much for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

It begins.

Slowly, slowly, with a dullening ache in his chest. With sideways glances and unspoken smiles, reverent and tainted, all at once. A peculiar melancholia, a filtering realization, that certain things may well be inaccessible for the rest of your life.  

John feels like a schoolboy, sullen with longing; nose pressed up against the shop display, breathing mist onto the glass.

 

*

 

There is no warning.

They’ve been sprinting, and are now greedily gulping oxygen, leaning against a street lamp. Sherlock abruptly motions for him to be silent, and cocks his head to the side, eyes wide.

Then, suddenly, John is shoved, stumbling, into the nearby alleyway behind a dumpster. Sherlock pushes him by shoulders against the wall, roughly, with both hands. They crouch close together. John is acutely aware of every point of bodily contact: from the pads of Sherlock’s fingers grazing his neck, to the pressure of the heel of his palm on John’s clavicle. Sherlock’s side, pressed flush into his. The collar of that blasted, Belstaff coat tickling John’s cheek. The rim of his ear resting lightly against John’s temple.

“Don’t move,” Sherlock breathes, and the huff of air from his mouth melts through the cold night, warming John’s jaw for an instant. There is the sound of echoed shouts, and the hard patter of running footsteps, but the two of them stay hidden, enveloped in shadows.

It’s ridiculous. John knows that there is a high chance of grievous injury, if not certain death, unless he tunes his every nerve and sinew to absolute, unadulterated alertness, but Sherlock is just so close, and Jesus, the  _smell_  of him—

 _Do I dare_ , John thinks.

 _Do I dare_ , he has swallowed silently, watching Sherlock peer into the microscope, wrists elegantly turning knobs, this way and that—

 _Do I dare_ , he has asked himself, watching Sherlock give a small gasp, knitting eyebrows and steepling fingers, about to reveal something dastardly clever—

 _Do I dare_ , he has wondered, watching Sherlock yawn,  _really_  yawn, wide-open maw crinkling his cheeks, displaying two rows of teeth and a perfectly ordinary uvula, looking for all the world like a  _child_ — 

John shifts his head an infinitesimal amount to the side, and Sherlock’s breathing stills. His face is obscured by the dark, but John senses that if either of them move forward in the slightest, it will be enough.

Yes. Yes, he may just dare.

A harsh yell comes, and Sherlock hisses. The adrenalin surges once more, and they are up and running, off like lightning, knocking a trash can in their haste, leaping over locked gates.

“Where the  _fuck_  is Lestrade-”

“Clothesline,” Sherlock warns, and John ducks just in time to avoid a pair of billowy bloomers.

 

 

They stagger onto the staircase without a care for Mrs. Hudson’s herbal-soother aided sleep, unable to stop giggles from bubbling and frothing over. Sweat drips from their noses, and stains their shirts. Sherlock has one hand on his belly, head upturned and shoulders shaking from silent laughter.

“Oh god,” John chokes out, “oh, sweet Jesus. That was.”

“Yes.”

“And  _so_ …”

“Quite.”

“Just…fuck!”

“A sound summation.”

Sherlock flashes him a wolfish grin, cheeks tinted pink from exertion.

He looks so happy, and whole and alive, and  _oh god_ , John is gripped by gratitude so painful it nearly brings him to his knees, because Sherlock  _did_  hear him that day— John, who was desolate and worn, throat clogged with trapped tears— and  _Sherlock came back_ — 

No, no,  _no_.

The single word pounds into his head with every heartbeat, in a harrowing refrain.

Perhaps it is best not to dare. To preserve this pristine, obscene, near-contentment the way it is.

 

*

 

It’s a burden, falling in love. A worrisome burden, except you can never pass it on to anyone else. You cradle it possessively, close to the crook of your body, far away from prying eyes, and hope to the high heavens it _goes away_.

You can scrawl it, furtively, in the condensation of a fogged-up mirror— revel, in the momentary lightness of your being— and watch it vanish along with the moisture. If it takes too long to dry, you can bunch your fist and wipe it off, squeaky clean and blank. It helps, but very little.

It will be found. John accepts that, with some trepidation. In the lines of his palm, or the tightening of his lips, or even the stance of his shoulder.

In large letters, across his forehead.

It will be found. It’s just a question of _when_.  

 

*

 

“I’ll be back by Saturday.”

“No,” Sherlock says thickly.

“No?”

“I’m forbidding you to leave.”

“Yeah, tell me how that goes.” John pats his breast pocket, feeling for his ticket. He unhooks his cardigan from the stand, and hefts his duffel bag down to the landing. By the time he’s climbed back up to the living room, Sherlock has draped himself upon the sofa, a lone arm swinging down to graze the carpet.

He swivels his head when John enters, exclaiming, “But I’m _ill_ , John, and you’re my _doctor_ -”

“Mrs. Hudson is only one yell away-”

“-a doctor attending a medical conference no less, oh, irony abounds-”

“-you know, yelling, that thing you’re pretty good at-”

“-don’t you people have some sort of code? Hippie, hypocritic,” he twirls his hand, vaguely, “you know, something. Haven’t you _vowed_ , John,” He sits up, now impassioned, eyes alight, “to treat those in need? To never turn away _anyone_ , in sickness or in health-”

“Yeah…not exactly, no-”

“-and to always— _what_ are you-”

“Hanky.” John drops a pretty, lilac handkerchief on Sherlock’s lap. “On loan from Mrs. Hudson. And it’s a common cold, Sherlock, for Christ’s sake.”

“Common?” Sherlock scoffs, eyeing the offending piece of linen suspiciously, “There is nothing _common_ about my cold. Judging by the symptoms, it’s an extraordinarily violent strain of rhinovirus, and I intend find out more by examining my mucus this eveni—” He pauses, and gives a loud, resonating sneeze, generating the required raw material—  quite likely, a surplus— for his experiment. 

John gestures, patiently.

Sherlock seizes the handkerchief with a scowl, and discreetly blows his nose. When he sets it down, his nostrils are red-rimmed, and the apex of his nose has been rubbed pink. He sniffs.

A terrible, _awful_ affection thunders through John, and he nearly _yanks_ Sherlock forward by the hands and presses a long, hungry kiss to his _perfect_ , sulking lips— for the adages are all false, _doctors_ aren’t the worst patients, _consulting-detectives_ are, but if asked, John would swear up and down, that in this moment, they are also the _best_ —

He nearly does, but he doesn’t. There is the small matter of hygiene: communicable infections, so on and so forth. That, and he’s not gay.

Sherlock flings himself back on the sofa with a dramatic sigh.

“Second cupboard, top shelf. The red jar.”

“I have a _train_ to catch,” John points out, which Sherlock does not bother to dignify with a reply, possibly because John is already moving towards the kitchen.

“What’s in the— oh, honey,” he says, inspecting the container.

“Yes, darling,” Sherlock deadpans, hand reaching out impatiently.

“Toast and butter and ordinary food, oh no, too _pedestrian_ ,” John hands it to him, “but plain honey, sure, why not-”

Sherlock dips his thumb in and pulls it out, watching the amber goop ooze back downward. He gives his finger a tiny suck.

John looks away.

“Erm. Right. I’ll head out then.” He nods at Sherlock, and edges around the sofa, towards the door. “The electrician will probably drop by today. And don’t have too much fun, Mrs. Hudson only has the one hip-”

“I never have fun when you’re away.”

John freezes, one hand on the doorjamb. He waits for Sherlock to fully explain— or add the usual, witty undercut— but Sherlock just stares at him, stubbornly, _daringly_ , upside down from the sofa.

“Oh, well, you’ll— I mean—” he clears his throat. “It’s only till Saturday,” he manages.

Sherlock buries his head into a pillow, and does not say anything.

John switches off the light and walks out, feeling distinctly conflicted.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! As always, your comments/kudos are gleefully welcome, they never fail to make my day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The narration isn't quite so disjointed here: the entirety of this chapter takes place in the same, narrow span of time.

Dinner is neglected, left to grow cool in takeout boxes, on top of the glossy magazines Sherlock always flicks through with the air of someone uncovering uncomfortable blasphemies (“People have strange aspirations, John,” he will mutter, disturbed). Both their laptops lie closed, John’s humming while it charges. The long-ailing sink drips, a lament which no one hears, for Sherlock is playing a better one. Horsehair slashes against steel, stringed just so across spruce wood, creating a removed, immersive atmosphere; John feels like his innards have been scooped away, leaving him empty, an exoskeleton, for the notes of Sherlock’s music to circle and reverberate through. The experience is pure, and purifying, and Sherlock is magnificent.

The blue evening light cuts through the glass like a slab, illuminating his frame. He sways in front of the window, wielding his bow with sharp, fluid precision, eyes far away. John wonders if Sherlock knows how his face varies, unconsciously, with the music. Eyebrows rise and fall, lips quirk and part, expressions tightening and easing up with startling sincerity.

John ought to feel insignificant, humbled— pale, in comparison— but he does not. He feels elevated by things he cannot fully understand.

Tchaikovsky dwindles to a stop, and John resurfaces.

“Brilliant,” he exhales. “Beautiful.” And in John’s mind, there is a secret ambiguity to these compliments, a slyness he can get away with, where Sherlock can’t possibly know John means both the performance and the performer.

Sherlock lifts his jaw from the chinrest and inclines his head at the praise. He then looks at John questioningly, bow dangling loose from his fingers.

“Oh, uh.” John leans forward from his armchair. “I dunno. Anything. Same theme? Something sad?”

“’Something sad’?” Sherlock gives a small smile, amused. 

“Yeah, well.” John raises his hands, conceding. “Philistine-at-large, you caught me.” He settles back, into the cushion. “Play me something you’ve composed.”

Sherlock turns to the window, considering. He then looks at John, carefully, before setting the bow onto the violin, and _oh_ , John’s stomach nearly bottoms out, and his heart clenches in a funny manner, because he knows this piece intimately well.

It’s The Woman’s Tune. Not The Woman’s Ringtone, that’s different, John reserves a special, nostalgic annoyance for that text alert. No, it has been a long while since this music haunted him.

He used to imagine Her in his stead. Alive, and gripping the useless phone, instead of John. Succeeding where John had failed, convincing Sherlock exactly how selfish the jump would be. Knowing Sherlock _better_ than John, knowing what he _likes_ , and knowing that he likes _her_.

All the while, this composition, wretchedly on loop.

John watches Sherlock play, and he wants to deny, _profusely_ deny, any look of emotion on Sherlock’s face— but how can he? He knows sorrow when he sees it, he used to _own_ sorrow, huddle it in great piles around himself and strike matches to stay warm. He hadn’t even known he was hoping, hoping for the hopeless, until now. Until it dissipated, leaving a wasteland in its wake.

Sherlock draws out the last note, letting it linger. It’s brilliant. It’s beautiful. Of course it is. And John _hates_ it.

Sherlock looks at him, a little expectantly.

John swallows. “Lovely.” He shifts in the armchair, as Sherlock begins to pack the instrument away. “Did you— do you still think about her, then?”

“Her?”

John licks his lips. “You did compose this for someone, didn’t you?”

“Someone…” Sherlock stretches out the word, a finger pressed to his chin. “No. It was more— some _thing_.” He fastens the clasp of the violin case, head downturned, strangely— shy, “A potent _feeling_ , of the oncoming unknown. I could not articulate it to myself, at the time-”

John feels ill.

“-but I believe I understand now.”

John nods, and rises from his seat in a trance, shuffling towards the door. Sherlock asks him something. He mumbles out a vague reply, putting one foot in front of the other, numb—

“John,” Sherlock says sharply, “Your dinner is-”

“Move, please-”

“John.” Sherlock sidesteps, blocking his path, threateningly close. His eyes roam John’s face, and he is frowning. “You’re upset, you’re affected— why are you so affec-”

“Because it’s _bloody_ unhealthy.” The words rip out from his gut, and he cannot bring himself to make eye-contact, so he keeps his gaze on the soft ridge made by collarbones against Sherlock’s shirt. “Because- because it’s not _good_ , because she’s not coming back-” Sherlock makes an irritated noise, “and you _can’t_ live like that. You can’t, you can’t _pine_ after dead people, it _ruins_ your life, and it becomes so _hard_ to love anyone else, because you’re never, _ever_ the same again-” John abruptly stops, shocked. He looks up at Sherlock, who is now deathly still, blinking rapidly.

Unbidden, a snide, lilting voice floats through his mind.

_Oops!_

John pushes past Sherlock, who is unmoving, and walks up the stairs in a daze, heart hammering against his throat.

_You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson._

He locks the door of his room, and flings the bedcovers aside. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the mattress, unable to form a single, coherent thought. He fidgets beneath the sheets, curling into himself until he is as small as he can be, hands tucked beneath his chin. “Damn it,” he whispers to the walls. “Damn it to hell.”

_Gotcha._

 

*

 

John stares at the ceiling until his eyes hurt.

There is a thin, wavering crack, which starts from one corner and tapers off in the middle, unfinished. As his vision swims, it darts forward, creeping to the end, but never quite reaching.

 

*

 

A man, with golden hair and sharp, handsome features. Shadows conceals one half of his face— John has the niggling feeling there is something warped beneath, something skirting hideousness— but when he turns his face to the dimming light, there is only smooth skin.

“Well, hello,” John realises, “you’re wearing my unif-”

Several people turn behind in their seats, angrily shushing him.

“Oh, beg pardon.” John nudges the golden-haired man, who he can’t quite place, but _surely_ knows, “Listen, what’s going on?”

The man looks at him strangely, and then motions to the wide, illuminated screen.

“Look at that,” John whispers, sinking into the plush, theatre seat, “I know this place. St Bart’s. A mate of mine from medical school teaches there, Mike,” a small, inky dot approaches the grey edge, “great bloke, got me a flatshare and everything— army pension in London, you can imagine, it was practically a godsend— except he’s a little mad, the flat mate” John continues to babble, as the camera zooms in on the figure with the fluttering coat, “a genius, but complete misanthrope, you know. Why is it you can’t have one without the other- oh, _hey_. No, no-” John jerks upright in his seat, struggling to push himself up, but finding he cannot. “That’s him, James-” So, it’s _James_ — John recognises this as soon as he says the name out loud, “That’s my flat mate, that’s Sherlock Holmes, why is he-”

John turns to James, a little panicked. James gazes at him impassively, with ancient eyes. Then, he leans closer, and John’s chest constricts, mouth dropping in astonishment, as James’ nose brushes his, their breaths mingling—

“Attention,” Commander Sholto says steadily, grasping his hand tight.

John draws his head back, bewildered, glancing at the screen— oh, _no_ — Sherlock, brave and sad, throwing away his phone—

“Bugger, he’s being an idiot again— I’m so sorry, James, but I really have to leave-” John clutches both armrests and _heaves_ , but in vain. On screen, Sherlock steps up to the ledge, arms outstretched—

“Are you— James, let _go_ of me, I need to reach him, from that height the fall could kill him-”

“It’s never the fall that kills you.”

“ _Don’t_ be a smart arse, just leave me-”

“But I’m not holding you.” James replies. “ _You’re_ holding onto me.”

John looks down, and finds that this is true. He is squeezing James’ hand so hard, it’s nearly white. Feeling foolish, he releases his grip.

“Go on, then. Hurry.”

“Thank you, thank you _so_ much— I owe you for this— maybe a pint, next week?”

James’ mouth curves upwards. “No, I don’t think so.”

The sea of cinema-goers parts for him, and John breaks into a jog.

“You sure?” He yells over his shoulder, turning back for an instant, but James is nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock’s body tilts forward— the projection flickers— as John reaches the edge of the screen, and leaps—

 

*

 

The phone rings, insistently. John rears his head, groggily, and silences it. A short respite, and then the phone shifts, bit by bit on the wooden top of the nightstand, with repeated vibrations. John burrows into a pillow, and then surrenders, checking the display. It is 3:06 am.

He scrolls down to his messages quickly, then slower, and hovers, a pooling sense of dread collecting at his throat—

 _Fuck_. He scrambles for his pants, sliding them on, then whipping them off angrily, putting them the right way.

 

_You’re sure his phone is switched off? –John_

_I’m certain. -MH_

_Exact address, ASAP. -John_

*

 

John briskly walks into the poorly-lit, empty reception area, and pauses, wondering how to proceed. There are narrow, dingy stairs, leading down to the parking levels and other, suspect things— and up, to the residential floors. Ah, here: John hurries into the open elevator, knowing instinctively where Sherlock must be, blindly swinging one leg inside—

His left foot dangles over unsupported air for a brief instant, and John swears out loud, holding onto the wall to slow his momentum, the curse echoing dully within the abandoned elevator shaft. The barely-there residue of drowsiness beneath his eyelids has fled, and John is now hyperaware. He inspects the darkness, and then jabs the button a few times without any real conviction, eyeing the stairwell.  

Slapping his leg reassuringly, John begins to climb, wondering if the building is as tall as it looks on the outside.

 

It isn’t. It is taller.

 

*

 

The last twelve steps pass by in a weary haze, and John stops just before the door, panting, muscles burning. He flicks away some sweat at his temple, and from beneath his eye, composing himself— and wrenches the plastic handle down, firmly.

Stepping out onto the wide, grey roof, John is met by a gust of cold breeze. The tubelight fixed above the doorframe casts white, clinical light, the arched reach of which ends just at Sherlock’s feet. He is standing by the ledge, a statue, hands clasped behind his back and face tilted away from John. Relief, then renewed terror wash through him, one after the other. He takes another step forward, calf bumping into the sharp edge of an old satellite dish.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock whips around, scarf untied, and leans into the light. A frown crosses his face, and then clears. “Mycroft,” he utters, sounding tired.

“It’s a bloody drug haunt, what did you _expect_ — do me a favour and move away from there, yeah?” John’s voice sounds high pitched, his mind racing, _31 flights 3 feet up and 3 feet wide ledge medium crosswind coat may cause slight drag for a second_ —

“Oh, for g— _calm_ down, I won’t fall-”

“Sherlock, _here_ , towards me _please_ -”

“No.”

“No?” And all of a sudden, the conversation feels very old.

“John. Come here.” Sherlock’s face is open and sure, his tone matter-of-fact.

John’s legs move, out of their own accord. Sherlock looks over the ledge, then back up at him, and blinks once, deliberately. John peers down.

There is a beauty to be found here, in London’s lit and dancing grids; in its crawling necklaces of headlights and neat, domino-stacks of high-mast streetlamps. Like a deranged, unwieldy constellation, plucked from the sky, coloured warm-yellow, and flattened onto the ground.  

“You daft, _daft_ \- Christ. Let’s try The Shard next time. I like the idea of a functioning lift service, for one-” Sherlock snorts. "I think you appreciate this sort of stuff more than you let on,” John says, staring ahead at the domed outline of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Sherlock follows his gaze.

“…have you been?”

John startles. “Wha- no, never. I had the time, after my discharge, but you have to climb up all the way, and my _damn_ limp-”

“-may it rest in peace,” Sherlock says, solemn.  

John chuckles. “I don’t think we’d get this view though, from there. Closing hours are strict, aren’t they?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Depends on who you know.”

“Ah wait, _wait_ , don’t tell me-” John looks off to the side, grinning, as Sherlock rolls his eyes, “a secur- no, manager, who you got off some high treason charges by proving it was, I dunno, only _light_ sedition-”

“No,” Sherlock interjects, “not quite so dramatic.” A slight grimace. “He’s actually a distant cousin. Nepotism is so _boring_ ,” he finishes, ringing out the last syllable.

John laughs, and Sherlock follows a second later. The breeze picks up, causing Sherlock’s curls to lift and fall. John feels an unexpected stab of sorrow, of unknown origin, and then his mind provides the reason, reloading the last eight hours— The Woman’s Tune— his outburst—

He flushes, and turns back, walking towards the exit. “Come on, let’s go. I was supposed to fetch you.”

“It’s very conducive, don’t you find?”

“Sorry?” John pauses, one hand on the doorframe.

“This…atmosphere. It helps along the thinking, serves as a good-” Sherlock turns away from the view, glancing at John, “-well. _Passable_ conductor.”

John shifts his weight to the other foot, unsure of where the conversation is leading to.

“John…I believe you may have reached-” Sherlock purses his lips, before completing, “-an erroneous conclusion.”

“Can we first leave, please, we can talk ab-”

And Sherlock _drops_ down with a huff, onto the ledge, and wriggles, seating himself comfortably. John exhales, hard—

He hears a distant, foreign voice say, “Don’t. _Don’t_. Get up, _now_ -”

“I didn’t compose it for _her_.” Sherlock tosses away the last word with a casual irreverence. “How can you think…” He trails off. “John- _John_ , look at me.”

John blinks his eyes open, realising they had been closed. The Woman: naked and knowing, now wrapped in a dark coat, lips painted in a red sneer, growing smaller and insignificant— Sherlock: fragile, determined. Sherlock, toppled by the wind, plummeting— no, _diving_ through air, like the steely gleam of scissors tearing through paper—

“The only way I can fall,” Sherlock pronounces each word slowly, “is if I jump. And I am not going to jump. Don’t you see, why you are frightened? Because it would be so _easy_. Because there is a part of us that _wants_ to.”

The air presses weirdly against John’s ears.

“To jump _is_ easy, John— if I had to do it again, I would-” John lets out a strangled noise, “-to save _your_ life, I would. Undoubtedly, unthinkingly, I would— and yet, you have also made it decidedly more difficult. Do you understand?” Sherlock pushes up his chin. Stubborn. _Daring_. “I am _not_ going to jump.” He glances down at the glittering city, around at the silhouetted skyline, and then raises his head. “I find I am partial to the view from up here,” Sherlock says quietly, gazing straight at John. Hesitantly, he smiles.  

The wind soars, and whistles.

“Come here,” John says again, hoarsely, after some time— after an _age_. After the universe has balled up and rolled out and righted itself, and the infinite contained within has once more reached stasis.

Sherlock stands up, and walks towards John, retying his scarf, head downturned— John reaches up to cup his face, catching him unaware. Sherlock flinches, then relaxes, eyes unblinking, breathing shallow. His hands hang limp by the side. This close to the light, nothing can be hidden.

A silence falls, as they study each other.

“So,” John smooths back a curl near Sherlock’s temple, lazily tracing his cheekbone, “About Irene-”

“ _John_ -” he begins to exclaim, sounding thoroughly exasperated, and John brings their heads together, pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He splutters, and blinks several times. John grins, and kisses him again, slower this time. Both their lips are chapped, cold and dry, and somehow, this doesn’t matter in the _least_. Sherlock’s arms wind behind John, awkwardly, encircling him. Lips part— a warm flick of the tongue, then a nip of teeth, and Sherlock lets out a sharp breath, abruptly crushing John to his chest, and angling his head lower, mimicking exactly what John did to him, and _oh_ , what he does, just there, that should be _outlawed_ — or, perhaps not—   

“I love you,” John confides, whispering into Sherlock’s mouth.

“I know.”

“Easy there, Hans Solo,” and Sherlock _tries_ to give an annoyed sigh, but it comes out just a _little_ desperate—  

Behind them, the sky begins to lighten.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anddd, we're out.  
> John's a little trashy in the start, isn't he?  
> The reference in John's dream sequence is to this famous Douglas Adam quote, from The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy: "It's not the fall that kills you; it's the sudden stop at the end."  
> The last scene is heavily, heavily inspired by (lifted from, if we're being crude) this scene in the television series Louie, by Louis C.K. (all hail), S3 E5: www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZqaHc4MITO4  
> For those of you who trundled through this pretentiously tiny 7k piece of writing I had the audacity to chapter: thank you so, very much. Whenever I edit something out, or decide, "this could be better," it's because all you lovely writers and readers force me to up my game. So again, thank you, and much love.


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